The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2)

by Domino Finn

  Despite his best attempts, Kelan was going to do something stupid tonight after all.

  Chapter 49

  "How'd you know we were working with the Yavapai?" asked Sergio. It wasn't meaningless banter anymore. Like a man who didn't want to make the same mistake twice, he truly wanted to know.

  Gaston jumped down from the bar and smiled. He hadn't known—not for sure. The series of coordinated strikes between the two factions raised the possibility, and the safe house Diego found on the border of Chino Valley showed their hand, but it was still just a guess. Gaston didn't want to let the kid know that, though.

  "Playing them, you mean," he said instead. "It was clever of you, stoking the fire that was between us, pitting us against the other. But it didn't work. There's a manhunt out for your friends as we speak. You picked the losing side. The weaker side."

  Sergio Lima scoffed in the face of his failure. He found something funny. The thought aggravated Gaston. The big man was missing something, but he was still in control of this situation. The new moon was close. Right now, Gaston was nearly invincible.

  "Strength is overrated, ése." The Pistolas president strutted toward Gaston with a sneer. "For instance, your boy, Omar, he was a tough son of a bitch. He knew how to take a bullet."

  Gaston clenched his fists. He tried to swallow his anger but the juice was flowing. He could feel it spread through him, invigorating him. "Don't fucking talk about him."

  "Or what? You'll sink this deal you're offering us? Don't you get it? El Paso doesn't want to share. La Eme is moving in on the Southwest. There's no room for gringos in this crowd."

  Gaston's neck twitched. Any other time it could've well been the anger, but he knew it was something else. The turn was imminent. It clouded his brain. He worked his jaw open and closed to try to focus. His breath came out as a low rumble.

  Sergio put his hands up and smiled. "Calmate ése. I'm just fronting." He retreated from the bigger man, towards the door, closer to safety. "But you see," he said, turning slowly, "I didn't finish my point. Omar was tough, but it didn't save him in the end. And your friend, Diego? I never believed that chingazo for a second. If he showed up here, I would've killed him. All you've done was trade your life for his."

  Gaston began to laugh, a wide smile playing across his face. A part of him had wanted this. Business was one thing, but now, especially as his instincts began to take over, as the wolf came, revenge sounded much sweeter.

  "You stupid mother—"

  The next events happened quickly. The wolf was coming soon. Its looming arrival brought on a variety of tensions in the body. Tight muscles, tingling, some distortion in the hearing. It served to avert his focus, and too late did Gaston hear the squeak of the kitchen door swinging open behind him. He began to face the noise when he felt a thud against his back. A loud sound, a gunshot, simultaneous but more slowly realized, followed.

  Gaston tumbled to his side as he attempted to dodge. His limbs splayed out on the floor, the maneuver nowhere near as graceful as he'd planned. His back opened up. Jagged spikes tugged at his nerves. Gaston tried to stand, but his lower extremities didn't cooperate. A strange numbness overtook him.

  He turned and saw Hector Cruz emerge from the kitchen, holding Diego's silver shotgun. The man's mustache, usually obscuring his lips, couldn't hide his monstrous smile. Hector's bare chest looked like it had a new tattoo on it—a welt dead center—until Gaston realized that was where he had punched the gang member earlier.

  Hector noticed what he was looking at. "You know how to throw a punch," he said, then held up his weapon. "I decided to bring something with even more punch than you." Hector returned his aim to the downed president.

  Gaston growled.

  "More strength," said Sergio, chuckling, heading to the door. "See what I mean? What does it give you, really?"

  Gaston didn't say anything. He was surprised that the well-placed shot had downed him so easily. But it didn't burn. It hurt like hell but it didn't burn. That meant there wasn't silver in his bloodstream.

  "And what about weakness?" continued Sergio gleefully. "You tell me not to partner with the Yavapai because they're weak. Don't you see? That's exactly why I did choose them. I don't want strength in Arizona. I want cooperation. Submission. Interstate 40 runs right through Sycamore, and the last thing I need is real competition."

  Gaston grimaced at the two men, feeling the pain in his body disappear. Sergio motioned for Hector with his head.

  "Apurate," he said, and left the diner.

  Hector Cruz laughed. Gaston wanted to move, but he couldn't. He thought maybe he was in shock. The shotgun squared to his face, and Gaston turned away. Once again, he felt the blast before he heard it.

  Chapter 50

  The windows of the Ford Explorer were slightly cracked open. It was a rental car sitting in a highway rest stop; it didn't look suspicious by itself, but there was no sense keeping the engine on and drawing attention to the FBI agent and police detective within.

  Both men had taken off their jackets and ties. They stared in silence at the property. The rest stop was a couple hundred yards to the south—not ideal, but it was the only place to park inconspicuously. The position afforded a decent enough view of the side of the building, but some of their visibility was blocked by an errant roadside billboard.

  Maxim grabbed Raymond Garcia's binoculars. "Is this the best view we can get?"

  "It's good enough," replied the agent. "We can see if anyone comes and goes from the highway. We can see the front and back doors of the main building."

  Maxim nodded but wasn't as confident. The windows of the safe house were covered from the inside. The portable in the back blocked the view of the yard and the other building. A truck in the driveway obscured some sight lines too. But with the north wall along the dry creek, their current vantage point was the only one.

  "Can't tell what the building is. It's not a residence."

  Garcia was on his laptop stealing Wi-Fi from the empty food court. "Maybe a shut-down water treatment plant or something?"

  Maxim lowered the binoculars. "That creek has been dry as long as I've lived in Sanctuary."

  Garcia shrugged but kept his attention on his computer. His face glowed blue. "How long has that been?"

  "Thirteen years."

  Garcia raised his eyebrows. "Here it is. I was partially right. The Yavapai don't own this property, and neither do the Pistolas."

  "Who does?"

  "The city. We should've known by the crap condition it's in." Maxim chuckled and handed Garcia the binoculars. "It says here the building was a visitor center. Chino Valley was the first capital of Arizona Territory, before it was Chino Valley anyway. When the town was founded after Interstate 40 came through, they had the idea that it would be a tourist attraction."

  "I'm guessing that didn't really work out."

  Garcia shook his head and put the laptop aside to continue the binocular surveillance.

  "We can't read the plate number on that truck from here. It might be visible from the road."

  "No," said Maxim. "I was watching the property as we passed. That driveway snakes around the building. You'd need to walk right up to the front door to see it. Maybe one of us should hike out there and get a closer look?"

  "Not yet. Let's make sure there's no movement before we expose ourselves. Remember, there's no rush. We're not moving tonight."

  Maxim nodded in agreement. If that truck belonged to Hotah they would have immediate cause to go inside, but they were gonna wait till the morning regardless. Smarter to play it safe.

  "Well, we've only been here a few minutes," said Garcia, "but I don't see any activity at all. Were you expecting something different?"

  "I don't know," acknowledged Maxim. "Proof that the Pistolas are working with the Yavapai."

  Garcia smirked. "We could get them on trespassing."

  "We'll see something. Waiting is the job."

  Garcia nodded absently as he watched the prop
erty. "Man, I haven't been on a stakeout like this in a long time."

  Maxim could imagine. Raymond Garcia had usually been on the other side of busts. He was never the guy waiting in the van with a rifle. He was the one inside the drug nest. Right next to the criminals. One of them.

  The detective marveled at how his outlook of the man had changed over the course of the day. He couldn't say he trusted him yet, and he was sure the feeling was mutual, but he seemed to be a straight shooter.

  "Tell me," said the agent. "Is this how you usually work? One of your non-official CIs gives you a tip?"

  "It's a small town," answered Maxim. "Knowing people is everything."

  Raymond nodded as if he understood. "Thirteen years in Sanctuary, huh? What brought that about?"

  Maxim's mood began to drop. "I moved here with my wife. She was born in Sanctuary. We met in school. I wanted to be a cop and they had an opening."

  "The perfect storm."

  "Yeah."

  Garcia didn't notice that Maxim wasn't keen on the subject. "I have a wife. Maybe when this is done the four of us could get together for dinner or something."

  The detective grimaced. "She's dead."

  "Oh shit," he said, slapping his leg. "I read that somewhere. Sorry about that."

  Maxim shook his head to show it wasn't important. The misstep created a lull in the conversation, but Garcia was determined to pass the time.

  "So why stay? In Sanctuary, I mean. The Paradise Killings made your career. Go federal. Go to Phoenix or LA. Why stay in a small town with no family? To be completely honest, I figured one of the reasons you didn't move on was because you were getting kickbacks from the motorcycle club." Maxim turned to him with a look of disapproval. "Look, when a small-town detective is driving around in an Audi, a Public Corruption agent needs to take note."

  "It's only a TT. I really wanted an R8."

  "Shit. If I'd seen you driving that around, you'd already be in jail."

  Maxim laughed. It felt good to change the subject at least. "Don't you get tired of busting cops?"

  The FBI agent turned to the detective. "You can't just think of me as the federal version of IA. It's not usually the police I go after. Corrupt government officials are destroying this country. Governors, mayors, councilmen—even Congressmen. There are so many hands in so many pockets it's impossible to wipe it out. These guys enable gangs. They perpetuate violence without even thinking about it. Because of their ties to this country's infrastructure, some of them are a bigger threat than the drug lords I used to go after."

  Maxim was impressed. "I get it. I'm just giving you a hard time, Garcia."

  "Call me Ray, Maxim. Look, you seem like a good guy. You wanna put the right people in prison. But you're close to some of the Seventh Sons. To Diego. Once you let people like that get their hooks into you, you're done. Not immediately, but surely. It's like quicksand. It may take time, but you'll sink."

  That little speech drew a longer silence than the mention of Maxim's wife. Part of it was because Maxim knew Garcia—Ray—was right. The agent had lived and breathed corruption. He knew it started small. Even Maxim was pissed about Diego's proximity to the club. Working with them, within the law, was one thing, but when you got so close to something it was in your face, it became hard to see the line.

  They stared at the peaceful buildings for a while longer. Nothing moved out there, but Maxim knew Diego wouldn't steer him wrong. He was a man of mixed morals, but he was loyal. Solid. Their friendship wasn't a sign of Maxim's propensity for crime; it was proof that there was still enough in Sanctuary worth saving.

  "You asked me why I didn't pick up and go last year," he said suddenly. "Why I'm still a small-town detective. The answer is roots, man. Sometimes they dig deep into you."

  Again Garcia nodded, turning over the detective's words in his head. Something resonated with him. It brought a calm to them until Maxim's phone rang.

  "Yup."

  "I can't find him," said Hitchens.

  "Diego? He's not at the clubhouse?"

  "No one is. The Sons are all gone."

  "Shit." Garcia turned towards his alarm and Maxim waved him off. Vigilante justice, werewolves—he didn't even know how to begin to explain what could be going down.

  "Sorry Maxim," said Hitchens, his voice urgent. "My time's up. I've got to disappear for the night. If the MC is smart, they'll do the same. Make sure you don't make a move tonight. Just observe. We'll back you up first thing in the morning."

  Maxim ended the call. His nerves were kicking in. He could feel it.

  Somehow, he knew the peace wouldn't last the night.

  Chapter 51

  Lying in the bed of the pickup truck, Kayda felt like an idiot.

  She didn't know what had gotten into her. One minute she felt like a complete failure, then a pep talk from her grandfather turned everything around.

  Part of it, she told herself, was that she had started feeling better physically. Her scratched skin, her sore ankle, even her rib no longer caused her pain. "Blood fortifies the body," her pahmi had told her. "The strength of one becomes the strength of another." She had nodded and humored him, but now she wondered if she had taken his words too lightly.

  Was the rabbit blood really that efficacious? It had energized not just her body but her spirit. All of a sudden she had been invincible again. With purpose.

  The decision to confront her brother had been straightforward enough. But indecision and second-guessing had caused her to lie hidden, unannounced, for a thirty-minute drive. The exposure to the elements had shaken her resolve. Even after Kelan had parked, Kayda remained under the tarp. Waiting.

  For what, she didn't know.

  Now the time ticked away and she had no clue where she was or what Kelan was doing. At one point she'd heard some voices but everything had gone quiet.

  How long had it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? And somehow, the longer she stayed still, the harder it was to move.

  A small sound, a pitter, perked her ears. It was as if a single raindrop hit the tarp, not loud but magnified by its proximity. There weren't any clouds in the sky. It was a dry summer. It couldn't be raining now.

  Another drop. Then another. The mystery distracted Kayda just enough for her to pull the covering away.

  She saw a large raven sitting on the wall of the pickup bed. Its beak pecked urgently at the plastic tarp.

  "Oh my God," she said. The bird was huge up close. Its black feathers shimmered in the starlight. Its feet and beak were rugged and dull, each ending in pronounced edges. The raven blinked, and Kayda looked deep into its ball of an eye, a black hole caught inside a marble, and she saw herself.

  Without warning, the raven took to the sky. Kayda could feel the waves of air against her face with each flap, and she understood. Truth and lies came from within. It was up to her to choose. It was up to her to see.

  Kayda Garnett lifted her head and surveyed her surroundings. The pickup was parked next to a few structures, but she had never been here before. It was quiet, but she knew the highway was close. She could hear the occasional car speed past.

  She lay back down and gazed into the sky. The bird was gone, but a single black feather fluttered down, reminding her of her conviction.

  Chapter 52

  Drip.

  There wasn't any light. Not yet. Diego didn't dare open his eyes.

  The first step was simply to be aware.

  It wasn't a conscious decision. It had just happened. One minute, the biker was blissfully asleep. The next: awareness and pain.

  Consciousness was overrated.

  His neck was stiff. There was a throbbing in his head, a build-up of pressure. Something wasn't right. Something was out of balance. Diego felt like he was floating, but not the kind of blissful, weightless floating of space. This was hard on his body, as if he were deep underwater and reacting to the pressure.

  He tried to breathe slowly and regain his faculties. He remembered marching Yas to the back of
the property. Getting ambushed by Hotah. He had been captured, but not killed.

  Drip.

  There it was again. That sound. So close to him.

  Diego de la Torre opened his eyes.

  The brightness hurt. For a moment, it was blinding, but then he realized it just enhanced the pulsing in his brain. He had been knocked out, by a wolf, no less. A direct strike to the skull. He probably had a concussion, or worse.

  The strain on his head intensified. Diego tried to move, to ease the tension with his hands, but he was stuck. Bound, somehow, but free. A wiggle of his arms set his whole body in motion, a sickening swim that made him nauseous.

  Stop moving, he thought. Stop.

  Drip.

  The sound. Above him. Diego's eyes refocused. On the ceiling above his head, he saw a swath of red. He thought of Omar. The boot print. He was looking at a pool of blood, only this time, it was his.

  Flaunting the physical order of the universe, a drop of blood escaped Diego's head and flew straight up into the air, towards the ceiling. Towards the slowly building pool.

  Drip.

  The biker jerked away from the unnatural sight. His entire body swayed again.

  The room wasn't that dark, actually. He'd just been disoriented. And the laws of physics were working just fine.

  Diego de la Torre was upside down.

  He was in the portable. Yas and Jim stood by the other wall, just noticing he was awake.

  Shit, thought Diego, I shouldn't have moved.

  He looked to his feet. He was hanging from the chains on the ceiling, each foot attached to a horizontal iron bar. His hands were tied behind his back with something. Not metal. Not plastic.

  Below him, a square was cut out of the carpet, presumably to make his collecting blood easier to clean.